Something Permanent
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock is hiding something from everybody. What happens when Molly finds out? Sherlolly


Sherlock Holmes and his best friend and sometimes colleague Dr. John Watson were sitting in the back seat of a black London cab discussing the successful conclusion of their latest case. Holmes was being his usual self, patronizingly describing his thought process in solving the case, while Watson sat next to him, exercising as much patience as he could bring to bear. The cab was fast approaching 221B Baker Street, and as both men prepared to exit, Sherlock said, "Coming up then, John? No big rush to get home to the family?"

"Not today, mate. Mary took Claire to the Zoo. I told her I'd be busy all day to avoid the trip, so I need to lie low for a couple of hours. And I could work on the blog just as well here as at home."

"Then I must warn you that we should endeavor to sneak past Mrs. Hudson. She has been rather adamant about me removing some used body parts from the refrigerator. Seems she doesn't appreciate real lady fingers stored near the pastry variety."

"Shouldn't you have returned them to St. Bart's for proper disposal by this time, Sherlock?"

"Molly has been very lax about picking them up…"

"How about you get off your arse and return them yourself, you git. Save the poor woman a trip."

"John, you know Molly loves to visit. I'm doing her a favor giving her an excuse to do so!"

As they entered the downstairs door, they could hear the landlady stirring, as if sensing their arrival. Sherlock tried to sprint up the stairs, but tripped over his own feet halfway up, taking a tumble back down the stairs to come to rest in a awkward position just inside the doorway at John's feet.

Mrs. Hudson opened her door. "Did you break anything?"

"No, Mrs. Hudson, I seem, to be all in one piece, thank you."

"I meant my railing. Or my little table, there! Oh dear!" She looked concerned as John set the unbroken table to rights.

"Just to let you know, Sherlock, I've called Molly Hooper and asked her to retrieve all that awful stuff from your fridge…"

"Mrs. Hudson, that stuff is not so awful. Your cooking has improved considerably…"

Mrs. Hudson glared a warning to go no further, or go hungry. His choice. Sherlock chose to shut up, and his landlady returned, with a parting grunt, to her flat. When Sherlock tried to rise to his feet he found that at least one ankle was not functioning at full capacity, so John sat him down on the stairway to do a cursory examination.

"I don't believe it broken, Sherlock. But it is already beginning to swell. Let's get you upstairs so I can take a closer look." With that, John hoisted the detective to his feet. With the help of the wooden railing and his best friend, the injured Sherlock Holmes made it up to his flat to plop himself down on his favorite chair.

"Okay, mate, shoes and socks off!" John said, immediately going into doctor mode. Sherlock complied with the demand to remove his shoes, but hesitated for some reason when it came to his socks.

"I need the socks off, mate. I have to examine the foot," John said, trying to sound patient and doctorly.

"You certainly don't need to see the entire foot, doctor. The ankle is what hurts!"

"Sherlock, I need to see your foot. I need to assess the extent of the damage."

"I have assessed the extent of the damage, John. It's my ankle!"

"Sherlock, why are you behaving so strangely? Do you think that I have developed a foot fetish or something since I moved out?"

"Possibly. You married an assassin, John. Who knows what demented pathways she may have led you down!"

"Sherlock, stop being ridiculous. What is there about your left foot that you do not want me to see? Bearing in mind that I have almost certainly seen that particular left foot on many occasions while we were sharing this flat."

"Perhaps it's something new, John. Something I don't feel like sharing…"

John Watson was now beginning to feel slightly guilty. He had seen some scars on Sherlock's back since he returned, and while his friend took no effort to hide them, he certainly hadn't made any move to discuss them openly. Mycroft Holmes had indicated to John, and possibly to others, that his younger brother had suffered some abuse, even torture, in Serbia.

"Sherlock," John spoke gently, "is this about something that happened while you were away?"

"Perhaps." the detective could not bring himself to meet his doctor's concerned gaze.

"Are there marks? Scars? Is this about what happened in Serbia?"

Sherlock finally made himself look at his friend "Not Serbia, John. France. Marseilles, to be exact."

"You were tortured in France, too, Sherlock? By one of Moriarty's surviving henchman?"

"Not exactly. I may have been a bit tortured, but it wasn't the variety of which you are speaking. I was depressed, miserable, alone. I missed...everyone…"

John could tell that his friend was having a difficult time talking about this, so he sat quietly and let him proceed at his own pace.

"I was working with some local contacts of Mycroft's, haunting the dock area, trying to locate a particularly important minion of Moriarty. Things were going too slowly. I was losing hope, and patience. I was growing more and more bored…"

"Sherlock, does this involve drugs?"

"No, John, no! I promised someone I would never touch drugs again. Or try my best. But this was the port of Marseilles, John. Drugs were everywhere! Sailors were everywhere! Tattooed sailors were everywhere!..."

"So what are you saying, mate? You hooked up with a sailor?"

"Of course not, John. I hooked up with a tattoo, so to speak."

John now started to laugh. "A tattoo?!"

Sherlock had the good sense to look embarrassed, as he had previously expressed many an opinion on the distasteful aspect of marking one's body with ink. "Yes, John, go ahead and laugh. I got bored, and lonely, and drunk, too. And then I got a tattoo. Oldest cliche in the book, right?"

John was now laughing even harder. "On your foot, Sherlock?"

"Easily hidden, visible only to me. I may have been drunk, John, but I have never been stupid!"

"That remains to be seen! Do I get to see it?'

"If you must. And only so you can examine my foot. Remember, you are seeing this in your capacity as my physician. I shall expect doctor/patient confidentiality to apply!" Sherlock then removed his sock and let John examine his injured ankle. But the doctor was every bit as interested in the tattoo as he was in the injury. The mark was not obvious at first, but as he turned the appendage, John saw the ink nestled in the arch of his friend's foot. It certainly wouldn't be visible to the casual observer, but he knew that Sherlock could easily gaze at it when he sat in his chair in his usual lotus position. Or simply crossed his legs, left over right. It wasn't large, but it seemed extremely well drawn, and John smiled when he saw what it was.

The drawing was a small heart, anatomically correct as far as he could tell. It was of a deep red color, with darker veins encircling its exterior. Across the heart, in a lovely script, was the name "Molly".

"Well, John, I am awaiting your comments."

"About the condition of your ankle, or the other…"

"Both, John. Speak up. We both know you're dying to…"

"Well, as I suspected, your ankle is not broken. But it is a rather severe sprain. You will have to stay off of it for a few days. Ice for twenty minutes at a time to reduce swelling. Keep it elevated. The usual, I'm sure you've heard all this before. Now, about the other…"

"John..."

"It's not what I have have expected. Perhaps a larger conventional heart shape, with flowers, and the word 'Mummy' blazoned across your chest! Tell me, chum, did you get one for me, your best friend?"

"Of course, John. It's on my arse! Would you like to see it?"

"Not particularly, Sherlock," John laughingly replied, hoping and believing that his friend was kidding.

"It's right across from Mycroft's. You each occupy your own cheek!"

"Okay, okay. But I have to ask. Does Molly know about this?"

"Of course not, Dr. Watson. And I emphasize the 'doctor' part! You will not tell her."

"No, but you should."

"And why is that, John. I told you I was at a particularly low point point. I succumbed to sentiment. I do not intend to repeat that mistake."

"Sherlock, was it really such a mistake if you helped you get through all that time away from us? From her?"

"Perhaps not, John. But Molly's moved on. There was Tom…"

"Operative word there is 'was', Mr. Brilliant Detective! Tom is no more! And you should…"

"End of discussion, John. Molly's changed. I've changed. I'm not good at relationships, or sentiment. It doesn't seem that Dr. Hooper is any better! We're friends, we're content. Why rock the boat?"

"Some boats need rocking, my friend."

Sherlock sighed. "Why? So they'll capsize and deposit us in shark infested waters? No thank you! Everything is just fine."

John then helped Sherlock into his room to change into something more appropriate than a fitted black suit to recuperate, and treat, his ankle. He then went to search the flat for an elastic bandage and the pair of crutches which he knew had been there at one time.

Sherlock had changed into pajama bottoms and a tee shirt and was sitting on his bed with his foot elevated on a pillow, when Molly Hooper knocked and stuck her head in the door. "John told me…"

"Bloody hell, he had no right to do that!" Sherlock shouted as he covered his exposed foot with a sheet. "Whatever happened to patient confidentiality! I'll have his license! The bloody…"

"Sherlock, what the hell are you on about? It's a damned sprained ankle, not some embarrassing social disease! Calm down, or I'll just toss this ice bag at your head and leave." Molly then made the short trip to his bed, repositioning the pillow under his foot, and gently laying the ice bag against the swollen joint. "I came over to collect the body parts Mrs. Hudson has been complaining about, and heard about your accident."

"Where's John?"

"He was downstairs in the basement looking for that old pair of wooden crutches he had to use a few years ago. When he found them he was quite curious as to why the rubber bits had been removed from the ends, and those ends sharpened down to stakes."

"Fear of a possible vampire invasion, Dr. Hooper? How about protection against giant Sumatran rats?"

"Fine! You're not going to tell me. And I'm not really sure that I want to know, anyway. Have you taken any painkillers? You could use an anti-inflammatory."

"John didn't say anything about painkillers…"

"Well, I'm a doctor, too, Sherlock. Maybe he just likes to see you suffer a little more than I do. What did you do to him, anyway? He seemed a bit jumpy, but amused, all at the same time." Molly then fluffed up another pillow, placed it on the bed next to his head, and lay down next to him, fingering the buttons on the telly remote until she found a program she thought they both would enjoy, "The Penguins of Madagascar." Molly's favorite character was Marlene, the level headed female otter, but she suspected that Sherlock favored King Julian, an arrogant and egotistical example of self-proclaimed royalty with delusions of grandeur. Go figure, she thought fondly.

They had been lying there for some time, when the increasing water content of the melting ice bag caused the ice bag itself to shift, dragging the sheet with it and revealing an inconvenient portion of the detective's foot. "Oh, let me get that," Mommy said. "It probably should have been removed some time ago. We wouldn't want you get frostbite on top of everything else, would we?"

But as Molly leaned forward to grab the ice bag, it suddenly occurred to Sherlock what had happened. He bolted upright, jerked himself forward, and collided forcefully with his pathologist as they both reached for the same goal. Sherlock's head made contact with Molly's with a thump that could be heard throughout the room. When her hand reached instinctively to touch the contact point, and a small "Ow!" escaped her lips, he forgot all about the exposed tattoo. Sherlock Holmes had brought himself to believe that no good would ever come of his sharing a bed with Molly Hooper, but giving her a concussion was a problem he had not even considered. He was busy parting her long brown hair, taking more time than was perhaps necessary, and so had not notice her staring at his injured foot.

"Sherlock, what's that?" Molly inquired in a whisper, almost as if in a daze.

"You've had a nasty bump, Dr. Hooper. Perhaps you're seeing things."

"Why is my name on your foot, Sherlock? And a heart?" The haze was beginning to lift, and she now raised her head slightly to look him directly in the eye. She saw nervousness. And fear. He looked light a prey animal who knew he was being stalked. Before he could make a run for it she pounced, closing the slight distance between her lips and his in a flash.

God, it felt good. But it would feel so much better if he would cooperate! After a brief moment of what seemed like surrender, Sherlock had recovered his senses, and pushed Molly away, albeit gently.

"Molly, what, what in god's name d-d-do you think you're doing?"

"Snogging you, Sherlock. Something I evidently should have done ages ago!"

"Look, Molly, I-I-I'm not really good at these things…"

"You were doing just fine a moment ago, Sherlock! Now stop stammering and kiss me back."

"I d-d-d-on't stammer, M-M-Molly. You stammer!"

Sherlock then tried to make a break for the door, but his injury slowed him down considerably, as he found he could only move on one foot. And it seemed, Molly was really quite agile when she needed to be. She leapt across the bed, circled the hopping detective, and shoved him back, not very gently, onto the mattress, then straddled his midsection, pinning him down by the shoulders.

"Molly, please, would you really take advantage of an injured man?"

"Damn right I would, when that injured man has been taking advantage of me for all these years! Sherlock Holmes, I'm not moving until you admit to me, and maybe even to yourself, that you do not tattoo a woman's name anywhere on your body, (even if it is your bloody foot, and we'll have to talk about that later, believe me!) if you care nothing for that woman!"

"Optimum viewing and optimum secrecy."

"What?!"

"That's why it's on my foot. I can see it, but nobody else can. And how do you know that my whole body is not peppered with tattoos, representing everybody from Uncle Renfield to my late dog Redbeard?"

"Are there others, Sherlock? Don't lie to me. I intend to check every inch of you!"

"Molly, you can't be serious…"

"Every. Inch. Sherlock."

"John didn't want to check when I told him his was on my arse."

"Maybe John is just not as interested in your bloody arse as I am, Sherlock!" She bent over, peppering his neck with kisses as his objections became less and less strenuous. Slowly, he moved his hands to her hips, holding her to him as he said, "Are you sure this is what you still want, Molly? After all this time?"

"Somethings are just hard to erase, Sherlock. Permanent. Like that tattoo of yours." Molly then removed her hands from his shoulders, and moving them to the top of her trousers, pulled the waistband down a bit until the top of her right hip was visible. And there was a small tattoo of the hated deerstalker hat, with the name "Sherlock" emblazoned across it!

"God, I hate that hat!" Sherlock growled.

"Yes, well, so did Tom, if that's any consolation!" Molly laughed as her detective, firmly holding onto her hips, rolled her over so that he was now practically on top of her. He then became a definitely more active participant, with kisses starting at her mouth, down her neck, and descending to the small exposed area just at her hip. "I definitely prefer the placement of yours, Molly!"

Molly was sighing contentedly as Sherlock lavished attention on his own name scrawled across her skin. She whispered into his ear, "So do I, love. But you better not be thinking that I'm going to return this favor. I definitely have no intention of kissing your feet in this relationship!"

John Watson trudged up the stairs carrying a new pair of crutches and an elastic bandage, only to find the bedroom door firmly closed. Putting his ear to the door, he was a little surprised to hear the sound of giggles. Not surprising coming from Molly Hooper, but definitely a little disturbing emanating from the likes of Sherlock Holmes. He could only reason that Molly had discovered the tattoo was was now doing something about it!

John rapped on the wood gently, "Sherlock, I'll leave the crutches and bandage out here. I'm going home now. Mary has been texting like a madwoman." John, smiling, turned to leave, but added, just before going, "Sherlock, don't forget to keep that elevated."

"Not a problem, John. Believe me, not a problem," his friend snickered from the other side of the door.


End file.
